A Pound of Flesh
by The Demon's Lover
Summary: The year is 1942, well in the midst of World War II, and Amaimon is bored. Rather than watch the destruction from afar, he decides to take a closer look. Upon reaching a small village, he meets an old crone asking for his help. But when accepting nearly costs him his life, Amaimon makes sure that the village pays its pound of flesh. T for mature themes and gore.


Amaimon Pheles, the Earth King, would never forget that day. It would sit in his head for many years to come, souring like expiring milk and fuelling many of his future battles. He would never forgive those abominable pair of humans, nor would their suffering ever truly quell him. Nor could he forgive his own fear, however brief it had been. It had infuriated him even more when he had told his brother, expecting him to rain vengeance on the village, and only recieved a fit of hysterical laughter.

Oh, well. No matter. He later got his revenge on that pesky town anyway. All it had taken was a snap of his fingers to surround the buildings with deceptively sweet-looking bushes of belladonna.

* * *

1942

Another bright red day had dawned on war-ridden Japan. Armies were marching across the borders, their blood-streaked faces as blank as the dirt they trod upon. Military jets combed through the heavens like giant wasps, defeaning all passenger-by. Foreigners spoke to each other in strange tongues as they squatted in their hiding places, ready to spill Japanese blood. Bright orange flames sprung up everywhere, dotting the land like stars in the sky. Smoke was forever hanging over the land like a velvet drape, dimming the sunlight and choking Axis and Ally alike.

All in all, it was the spitting image of Gehenna. The only difference, of course, were the game's players. Demons could never be suffocated by a thing like smoke, nor could small lumps of metal take their lives. Well, unless they'd been bathed in holy water and blessed. Humans, on the other hand, fell like flies no matter what flag that they fought under.

Amaimon found it a welcoming change to the usual tedium waiting for him at home. In periods like this, Assiah was even more interesting. He supposed that he drew entertainment from it the same way that some people enjoyed watching dogs or roosters rip each other to shreds.

But why should a king - a demon king, no less - be forced to watch from a back seat?

Smiling deviously, Amaimon reached into his jacket's breast pocket and extracted several rainbow-colored lollipops. He tried not to eat them too often despite their irresistible sweetness: Big Brother kept warning him that food was growing increasingly scarce, and that included candy. Selecting a bright orange one, he tore the wrapping off with a twist of his wrist and stuck it between his jagged teeth. Sugary pumpkin flooded his mouth, making his taste-buds tingle with delight. Already elated by the flavor, Amaimon stood on the tree branch and jumped.

He flew ten meters through the air, the smoky wind streaming through his green hair and his torn coat flapping behind him. Howling joyfully, he slammed into the dry, yellow grass with an echoing _thump_. Then, he made another leap and glided another ten meters, narrowly dodging a burning corpse. Ally, Axis, he didn't care to glance and find out.

It only took him an hour to reach a village that had recently been struck by war's iron fist. Several of the houses were piles of charred timber and empty animal pens reigned supreme. Amaimon stood at the town's crumbling entrance, sucking on his lollipop, wondering if it was too desolate to provide him with any fun. But in the end, he decided to search through it anyway. In Gehenna, almost any smelly old cave held some grouchy ogre that he could fight. Most bodies of water hosted kelpies, those pesky horse-fish monstrosities that tried to offer him a ride and, thereby, drag him down to be eaten. He still had the row of ogre skulls sitting on a shelf above his bed, and the kelpies' skins provided excellent tapestries.

His curl-toed boots crunching wood and bone alike was seemingly the only sound in the entire village. Amaimon didn't bother calling out. He knew that in times like this, those that didn't grab a knife and hurry to battle prefered to huddle in their homes like frightened newborns. This was confirmed when he passed by a couple of huts and spotted a few gray faces in the windows. They gasped and quickly pulled their shutters in, blocking him from their view - and they from his.

Amaimon sighed, biting down on the remainder of his lollypop. Quickly melting the sugary shards, he spat out the stick and reached in his pocket for another one. The good mood instilled from the flight was quickly sinking below the surface. With every step, he became more convinced that he would find nothing interesting here. And to think that demons usually never stopped reminiscing on war times! They would call them the most exciting times in human history! Ha. That was a laugh. At the risk of sounding like a weakling, Amaimon admitted to himself that he prefered peaceful times. At least then, he wouldn't have to limit the amount of candy that he ate. At least there were thousands of dauntless people that he could play with. And finally, at least everything remotely amusing wasn't reduced to ash.

He'd been ready to kneel down and leap towards home when a frail voice reached his eardrums.

"Um, excuse me? Young man?"

Amaimon turned around, cerulean eyes flashing, to find an old woman with a hunched back approaching him. She was an all-around pathetic sight. Her clothes were threadbare and patched with mud. Only one sandal remained on her wrinkled feet. Her face was a menagorie of deep wrinkles and scars, telling of a lifetime of hardship. She was dragging a burlap sack easily twice her size behind her. The old lady walked towards him with all the humble reverence that Amaimon expected from humans, which instantly piqued his interest. Now here was a human who knew her place. He turned fully to face her, placing his clawed hands on her hips.

Barely looking him in the eye, she spoke in a thin voice. "Um...could you please help me with this bag? It's been such a long day, and I'm so tired..."

Amaimon's large, round eyes flitted from the woman to the sack. His sensitive nostrils told him of some meaty contents within the burlap boundaries. It was sweetish, kind of like pork. Where had she found a similar prize in a place as godforsaken as this? Curious, he stepped forward and lifted the sack with a single hand. Yep, there was definitely something solid in there. Even though it felt light enough to him, Amaimon didn't discount that it must have weighed nearly twenty pounds. Honestly, he felt surprised that the old woman had been able to carry it at all. He turned back to her, and she flinched.

"Where is your house?" He asked.

"Oh, not far." She answered vaguely, rubbing her hands together. Amaimon noticed that her fingernails were encrusted with dirt, as if she'd been digging through soil for hours. Deciding that this old lady would be the most amusing thing that he'd encounter all day, Amaimon tossed the sack over his shoulders. He jerked his chin forward. "Alright. Where to?" The old woman lit up, melting years from her face, and gestured for him to follow. Shrugging, he did. Before they got moving, however, she turned back to him and flashed a smile. "Thank you. I really appreciate it."

There was something about her smile that put Amaimon off. It was the sort of grin that his brothers always wore when they spotted a juicy bit of prey. He had felt that smile on his own features countless times. But Amaimon dismissed it as a figment of his imagination. He was one of the eight demon kings! The King of Earth, worshipped as a god in several countries and feared in Gehenna. He would _not_ be intimidated by a little old lady with one shoe left.

The journey only lasted around ten minutes or so. Of course, nothing of interest happened: this village seemed to be about as exciting as a score of ants poring over a dying beetle. Amaimon made a mental note to visit one of the battlefield once his business was concluded here. There _had_ to be some available thrills there. "Young man?" The old woman's voice jerked him out of his thought like a fishing line pulling a trout out of the water. "Can I offer you some food? As thanks for helping me?"

Amaimon was about to flat-out reject her offer when his stomach growled like a small, angry bear cub. Suddenly feeling sheepish, he slapped it with a long-nailed hand. Admittedly, he'd eaten next to nothing today. Just some boiled rice and the lollypop from earlier. Some free food wouldn't be so bad. But food prepared by those hands...?

"Sure." He replied. "But wash your hands first. They gross me out."

The old woman, contrary to Big Brother's descriptions of human peevishness, seemed oblivious to the insult. "Oh, of course." As they walked into the small house, she pointed to a corner in the living room. "Just leave that there, dearie. I'll bring you some fried rice." She paused like a magician about to announce his best trick. "Besides, I'll have a real treat for you if you can help me with one more thing."

 _'Dearie'?_ Amaimon very nearly shuddered. "What do you want?" He asked, dreading more donkey work. The woman waved off his question with a sweet smile. "Well...you'll see." Shrugging, the demon king dropped the sack and gave it a soft kick. It slammed against the wall with enough force to shake it. Grinning in self-satisfaction, he sat down cross-legged while the woman stared at the sack, astonished. He waited for a few second before losing his patience. "Well?" He barked. "Do I have to go and cook for you, too?"

Regaining composure, the woman shook her head quickly. "Oh, no, no. Thank you." With that, she disappeared into the kitchen. Minutes later, the tantalizing smell of roasting meat and boiling rice wafted into the living room. Amaimon was soon drooling at the scent. For the first time since setting foot in this burnt shell of a village, he felt glad that he'd come. If nothing else, this lady possessed culinary skills that surpassed Big Brother's. All _he_ knew how to cook were instant ramen noodles.

The woman at last arrived with a tray in her withered old hands. Upon it was a dish stacked high with steaming rice freckled with meat, egg, and vegetables. Amaimon attacked it with his hands the moment the old lady set it down, not even bothering with the chopsticks. The old woman watched him eat, a particular glint in her eye, as she chuckled. "You have quite the appetite." Amaimon nodded between mouthfuls, swallowing audibly. "By the way," he asked in a voice muffled by food, "what do you need help with?"

The old woman's face shifted like melting clay. Moments ago, she had looked...strange, but relatively amused. Now, however, she appeared to be on the brink of tears. Amaimon felt bothered; not by guilt, mind you, but annoyed that this lovely dish was being soiled by pesky human sorrow. "You see...my son died last night."

 _'So did many others. You want sympathy?'_ He wanted to ask. _'You'll find it in the dictionary between shit and symphony.'_

Still, he remained silent while she continued. "And he needs to be bathed for his funeral, but..." She looked down at her hands, as if realizing for the first time that the years had flown her by.

Amaimon thought for a moment before shrugging once again. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. Besides, he didn't want this old lady spreading the rumor that a young man with green hair - as his worshippers knew him - had eaten her food and refused her request. That would do unthinkable damage to his reputation.

"Okay." He replied through a mouthful of rice, meat, and egg. "I'd be honored." Which wasn't true, but that was what she wanted to hear. All humans wanted to feel like they were somehow individually important, that they weren't one more grain of sand in the world's great beach. Smiling that queer grin again, the woman gestured to the plate. "Eat first. You'll need your strength." Disappearing through the door, she called out: "Let me know when you're finished."

"Will do." He called back before shovelling another handful between his teeth. As he chewed, however, he felt something bony roll around in his mouth. The frowning demon king reached inside, seized the offending morsel, and held it up for scrutiny. He nearly dropped it in shock.

It was a third of a human finger, the skin scorched dark pink and the nail burned black. Amaimon made a sound of disgust as he threw the finger across the room. Losing his appetite, he kicked the tray away and spat out the rice that he had been chewing. Then, he fished out his remaining three lollipops, tore the wrappers off, and stuck them in his mouth. As he sucked the sweet, fruity juices from them, he contemplated. Cold fury began to roll off him in waves. The nerve of that woman! Feeding him filthy human flesh when his worshippers brought him only the best! How dare she decieve him that way!

And to think! He'd overheard Big Brother discussing matters of cannibalism with various men in suits, and he'd barely given it a second thought! Apparently, thanks to ever-increasing Allied attacks on Japanese supply lines, people were turning to each other as a source of nourishment. Hell, whole squads under commands of officers were doing it! Cannibalism was even floating around in Japanese army camps, where Allied prisoners ended up in the cooking pot.

This old crone was no different.

His teeth gnashed, reducing the hard sweets to splinters.

So, she had thought herself capable of axing him off and feasting on his flesh, eh? Well, she had made a stupid miscalculation. One that would cost her her life.

Amaimon's first decision was to sweep the spilled rice under the rug. Then, he tossed a couple of additional handfuls of rice in the same place to make it appear that he'd eaten his fill. Once he was satisfied that his discovery would not be seen at first glance, Amaimon resumed a relaxed sitting position. "Okay!" He yelled. "I'm done!"

The woman emerged a few minutes later, smiling benignly. It made Amaimon want to yank her yellowed teeth out one by one and make a necklace for himself. Wouldn't be the first time. "Did you enjoy your meal?"

"It was...reinvigorating." Amaimon answered, giving her a toothy grin of his own. The sight of his long, filed down canines must have startled the crone, for she quickly looked away. Good. "So...let's tend to my son, shall we?"

"Of course." In one fluid motion he was on his feet, gesturing to the door. "After you." He purred. The woman, clearly still stunned, led him to the backyard. It was a piteous sight, nothing but a patch of dead yellow grass and a flaky old peach tree that probably hadn't blossomed in years. A wooden bed occupied the center of the yard, where a long white sheet concealed a body. Amaimon eyed it with dry puzzlement. Was that even her son under there? Or was she asking him to clean up after her last hearty meal? Deciding that it didn't really matter, the demon king positioned himself against the sunlight. His shadow faced him, revealing his true nature: thick arms and legs, huge pointed ears, and a thick tail unfurling behind him. But more importantly, the old lady's shadow was also within his line of sight.

Courtesy of the steel bucket already filled with water, Amaimon began to bathe the body. Yet as he worked, he kept his eyes glued to the woman's shadow. She apparently did not notice his own monstrous one, instead watching his back. He thought that she'd do that; that was why he'd offered it to her, giving way to the ideal oppurtunity of attack. Before he'd even finished cleaning the upper torso, Amaimon saw the woman's arm slowly reach into the folds of her dress. Then, she raised it over her head. Grinning, he pretended not to notice. But he began to summon the power coursing through his veins. However, something was also happening beneath his dripping fingers. He felt the body's right arm slid beneath the shroud and drew out something long - and sharp.

Amaimon jumped away as quickly as a doused cat. He was too fast for any human to follow - especially an old woman who thought to have her prey in the bag. The crowbar nailed her son full in the temple, knocking him to the ground. A cackling Amaimon kicked her in the chest, sweeping her clean off her feet and slamming against the wall. The sight filled the demon king with laughter that bubbled from his throat and flew into the smokey air. "Nice try, Granny!" He mocked. "But next time you serve someone your home cooking, _make sure there aren't any fingers in it!_ "

The old woman heaved as she struggled to sit up. Her scraggly gray hair hung in her eyes, which were wide with shock. "You...the rice...oh, God..."

"No." Amaimon's amusement faded. "Not God." Checking that the crone was still conscious, he walked over to her son and grabbed him by the hair. He dragged the knocked-out boy in front of her. Making sure that she had a full view, he placed a hand on either side of the boy's head and crushed it like an overripe melon. The woman shrieked with horror, slapping her hands over her mouth. Tears poured from her eyes as she watched her son's brains scatter across the earth, with bits of skull shining like chips of ivory. Amaimon watched her lament as he wiped his hands on the grass. It grew erect and green upon his touch. Smirking, he watched her sob for a few minutes before calmly strolling away.

The local police were called shortly afterwards. An anonymous tip spoke of an old woman using nefarious ingredients in her daily chow. Eventually, they arrived to the house and gave a thorough search. It didn't take long for them to make the gruesome discovery: over fifty yellowing skeletons in the cellar and buried in the yard. They brought the old woman in for questioning. Between pathetic snivels and murmurings for her boy, she told them the truth. It turns out that she and her son had been using this technique for over two years, ever since food supplies began to run out. She also said that the two of them hadn't been the only ones in the village eating their fellow human. Not by a long shot.

A certain green-haired young man dressed in mismatching clothing listened by the window, a lollipop on his tongue and a smirk on his face. His fingers were still twitching from recent use. He lay back on the rooftop, drifting off to sleep, while the screams and moans of the poisoned rose into the polluted air.


End file.
